


Anything For You, Love

by sandwastesinthevoidofmychest



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, POV Greg, POV Greg Lestrade, Protective Greg, Sherlock is a Brat, Stressed Mycroft, Tenderness, basically sherlock and john are just shit people in this okay, sleep-deprived mycroft, they're both so in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest
Summary: Mycroft hasn't had a good few weeks. He's sleep deprived, and now Sherlock is threatening an explosive plan for a public event.However, Mycroft Holmes has Gregory Lestrade.& Greg will do anything for him, including save the day.





	Anything For You, Love

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is a fic I promised Morgan ([ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordOfDeath) & [tumblr](https://morganmorningstar.tumblr.com/)) for their birthday, six months ago. I'm so sorry.  
> This has been six months of trying to get it right. 
> 
> Morgan asked for: pining, fake-relationship (I guess I got that in a very minor way? I tried.), Greg's POV, cameo appearance from their OC Amida, and top!Greg (again, kinda). 
> 
> This is the result, a very happy very belated birthday gift.  
> & hey, at least I got it to you before your 80th. (I jest, but you've been amazingly patient, ily)
> 
> Enjoy to all <3

“Get in the car, Detective Inspector.” 

Despite it all, that sleek voice sends shivers down his spine. Curse the man. 

Sally raises an eyebrow at Greg, watching him over her cigarette. 

Greg raises his head to meet Mycroft’s grey gaze. “Well hello to you too, Mycroft.”

Sally snorts before taking a drag of her cigarette, an amused smile on her face. She says nothing. 

He’s tired, goddamnit. He’s been stuck in interview rooms for the last twelve hours. 

He can see Mycroft assessing him, and Greg feels the hairs on his arms rise as Mycroft’s eyes trail down his body. 

It was a glance that lasted barely seconds, but Greg was fully aware of it. 

When Mycroft meets Greg’s gaze again, Greg watches him.

There’s a slight blush high on Mycroft’s cheeks, barely visible under the streetlights.

It’s enough for Greg to see though, and he feels his heart speed up. 

...Is he _hopeful?_

 

Mycroft stands up straighter, his hand tightening on his umbrella.

“We need to discuss Sherlock’s latest foray into the criminal classes.”

Greg sighs heavily, wishing he hadn’t given up smoking. “Thought we agreed I wasn’t his babysitter anymore, yeah?” 

“Of course. That job title has long since been passed on to Doctor Watson.”

Greg can’t help but snort, “Then why aren’t you kidnapping him?”

“Kidnapping is an offence, could take this tosser away from you.” Sally interrupts, she’s grinning at Greg, eyes dancing. As a result she misses the withering glare that Mycroft sends her way. 

“I’d like to see you even try to attempt such a feat.” The coolness in Mycroft’s voice immediately wipes the smile from Sally’s face. 

She drops the butt of her cigarette, stamping on it. “Jesus. See you, Greg. Don’t let him tie you up.” 

Greg notices the blush return to Mycroft’s cheeks, in fairness the image she’s put in his mind’s eye makes him blush too, inappropriate thoughts for right now crossing his mind. “See you tomorrow, Sal.” He says as she walks away. He sends Mycroft a reassuring smile. 

“Right. I’ll come, but there has to be a coffee in it for me.”

Mycroft’s lip twitches, threatening a smile. “Certainly.” He stands aside and opens the car door for Greg. 

 

The journey to the Diogenes passes mostly in companionable silence. The traffic isn’t horrific, and through the reflection of the window, Greg catches Mycroft watching him. 

Greg turns his head suddenly and the colour of Mycroft’s face deepens, embarrassed. 

“How bad?” Greg asks, surely he would have been told straight away had Sherlock or John been hurt. 

“Pardon?” 

“Sherlock.” Greg offers, momentarily distracted by Mycroft wringing his hands together. 

In the dull light, Greg catches sight of the bruises and grazes on the knuckles of Mycroft’s left hand. 

Without thinking he reaches across the small space, brushing his fingers across the back of Mycroft’s hand, “Hey, what happened here?” 

Mycroft pulls his hand away from Greg as though he’s just given him an electric shock. 

Greg feels his heart sink, “Jesus, sorry-“

“No-“ Mycroft murmurs, “I didn’t mean to react like that.” 

Greg just nods slowly, “You alright?”

Mycroft nods, “Legwork.” He says as though that explains everything. 

In a way it does, because Greg knows that Mycroft probably wouldn’t be able to tell him anything anyway. 

Yet, Greg can’t shake the uneasy feeling that sits in his chest that perhaps there’s more to this than Mycroft is letting on.

 

Once Mycroft closes the door to his office, Greg turns and stares at him. 

“What is this really about?” He asks. 

Mycroft stares at Greg blankly. 

Looking at Mycroft closer, Greg can see that Mycroft’s paler than usual, and there are dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes that are frankly worrying. 

“Mycroft?” Greg whispers, taking a tentative step towards the other man. 

“I haven’t been sleeping, it’s nothing.” Mycroft brushes it off. 

Greg reaches out and places a hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Mycroft blinks at him, the increasingly familiar blush coming to his cheeks again. 

Greg finds it endearing. Adorable even. He tries to put a stop to that thought right away. 

“Sherlock has reportedly been in contact with a group with anarchist ideals and I fear that despite our best efforts, there is a risk of hostility at a major public event in three days time.” 

Greg’s complete surprise must be written across his face. 

“John has also been involved.” Mycroft adds. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Mycroft frowns, “I wasn’t aware that I had changed career paths and become a comedian.” 

Greg raises his hands in defence, “Alright, explain. But coffee first.”

 

Mycroft texts for coffee and gestures to the armchairs that sit beside the fire. 

Greg goes to sit down, the simplicity of a comfortable chair is almost a luxury. 

Mycroft sits down across from him and Greg watches him carefully. 

“When was the last time you slept?” 

“Have you seen the state of our country and government at the moment?” Is Mycroft’s answer. 

“So you’re telling me you haven’t slept in years then?” Greg counters. 

Despite everything, Mycroft manages a smile. It’s glorious and just for Greg. 

“You need to look after yourself, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft’s eyes meet his own and Greg is nearly taken aback by the sadness that’s hidden in those grey eyes. 

The sound of the door opening behind them distracts them. 

A waiter comes in with a tray of two mugs and some sandwiches, and places them on the table between them both without a word and leaves. 

“I doubt you’ve eaten much today.” Mycroft explains when he sees Greg glance at the sandwiches. 

It’s these little gestures of thoughtfulness that are becoming increasingly common that make Greg wonder.

 

“So what exactly are we going to do about this?” Greg asks, curious. He finishes off another sandwich. 

Mycroft has been staring into the fire in silence as Greg eats and it takes him a few seconds to realise Greg was addressing him. 

“Pardon?” He asks as though he’s just been roused from a nap. 

Greg frowns, and reaches across the space between them, placing his hand on Mycroft’s forearm. 

Mycroft glances at Greg’s hand, then across at Greg. 

“What’s wrong?” Greg asks softly, watching Mycroft carefully. 

Mycroft stays silent, the deep sadness in his eyes returns, but he takes Greg off guard by moving his arm from Greg’s grip and instead taking his hand in his. 

“You haven’t seen me in a fortnight.” He murmurs. 

Greg nods, “You said you were abroad.” He pauses, “Y’know, we could always skype...or text, I mean, if you want to.”

Mycroft’s lip twitches, “That would be welcome in the future.” 

“Good.” Greg whispers, intertwining their fingers. Mycroft’s hand is cold in his own. 

 

This closeness always seems to come to the forefront when they are alone, closed away from the outside world. It makes Greg’s heart ache a little. 

Outside, he is only Detective Inspector. 

“There was an...altercation.” Mycroft murmurs, glancing at Greg, “We lost two of our best agents.”

Greg is silent for a few seconds, suddenly Mycroft’s tiredness, the state of his hand make sense. “Jesus, Mycroft, I’m sorry.” Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hand, and Mycroft stares at their hands. “And you?”

Mycroft shakes his head, “My combat skills are not as strong as they once were. I was injured, butI survived. Obviously.”

“When did you get back to London?”

“A week ago. I have been...recovering.” 

Greg feels a pull of sadness, “Hey,” He whispers, “You didn’t have to go through that alone.” 

Mycroft sighs heavily, shoulders falling forward. “I...I didn’t know how to ask you.” 

“Mycroft, I’m always only a phone call away. Any hour. No questions, no hesitations. If you need me, I’m here.” 

“You’re far too kind.” 

“M’only being honest.” Greg murmurs, brushing his thumb across the back of Mycroft’s hand. 

 

A comfortable silence hangs in the room, Greg still holds Mycroft’s hand. There’s something about this that Greg wants to prolong for as long as possible. It’s comforting and these moments are so, so rare. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft murmurs. 

Greg takes his gaze from the crackling fire in front of him. The moment broken. 

He sighs, “And John apparently?” He asks. 

“Hmm.” Mycroft hums, Greg tries to hide his disappointment when Mycroft lets go of Greg’s hand and gets up to fetch something from his desk. 

He’s not quite sure that he manages, a momentary pang of sadness hits him square in the chest. Mycroft holding out a folder for him distracts him and he’s grateful. 

However he does get the briefest glimpse of Mycroft’s curious glance at him. 

He hopes. 

 

Greg makes his way through the folder, “We’ve dealt with these guys before.” He murmurs.

“Oh?” 

Greg hums, “One of them tried to dress up as a Buckingham soldier to get inside the gates of the palace, failed horribly.” He flicks through another few pages, landing on a picture. “This guy, you remember him?”

Mycroft leans in to look at the picture, “I don’t believe I do.” He seems bothered by this. 

Greg casts him a reassuring smile. “Think you may have been out of the country.” 

“What happened?” 

Greg chuckles, “Incredibly idiotic.” 

Mycroft leans in over Greg’s shoulder. Greg can smell Mycroft’s cologne, it’s sweet and woody. He breathes it in, closing his eyes for a few seconds to take it in, to remember. 

“Well, dressed up in a V for Vendetta mask, tried to spray paint the anarchy symbol on Westminster. One of the guy’s on patrol noticed him immediately. Arrested him before he could even take the spray paint from his backpack.”  
  
Greg laughs at the memory. “The policeman on duty said this guy probably would have succeeded in some way had he not stuck out, looking completely ridiculous. He was the laughing stock of the whole of our building” 

“What I’m gathering from your recollections is this... _group_ isn’t very-”

“Smart? Nah. Clown college would do better.” 

Greg’s heart skips a beat when he hears Mycroft chuckle. 

“So they are not a national threat?” 

Greg snorts, “Doubt it.” He glances through a few more pages, lands on a video still of Sherlock, John and the guy he’d just mentioned. He frowns. “Although Sherlock and John’s involvement is weird.” 

“Unsettling.” Mycroft murmurs. 

Greg glances up at Mycroft, “Yeah?”

“Well, Sherlock is fully capable of organising chaos.” Mycroft frowns, “That’s what worries me.” 

 

Greg stands up, “Any more evidence of further meetings?” 

Mycroft nods, gesturing for Greg to follow him to his desk. 

Mycroft sits in his chair and Greg stands to his side. 

“This is from earlier this morning.” Mycroft presses play on a surveillance clip. 

Greg leans in. Sherlock grabs a man passing and pulls him into a side alley. The view changes to another camera and Greg notices Sherlock glancing around. 

“He thinks he knows the location of every cctv camera in London. He’s horrifically incorrect.” Mycroft supplies, amusement in his voice. 

“You genius.” Greg blurts out without really thinking about it. He blushes profusely as Mycroft doesn’t reply, but he sees a hint of a blush on Mycroft’s face from the corner of his eye. 

Sherlock leans in close to the other man, his back to the camera. They appear deep in conversation when John appears from the back of the alley with a hold-all. 

Greg sighs heavily. 

“I concur.” The tiredness in Mycroft’s voice is clear.

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s shoulder and Mycroft leans into him. 

 

On the camera, they watch as the man takes the bag from John. He opens it, and Greg curses. 

“Please god no.” 

Mycroft sighs again, as though he’s too tired to agree. 

“Fireworks?” Greg leans in closer to the screen. “What the fuck do they need fireworks for?” 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

Greg glances at the calendar on Mycroft’s desk. “Fifth of November?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft’s voice is strained. “The event takes place on that date.” 

“What exactly is it?” 

Mycroft waves a hand in the air. “The opening of a temporary Van Gogh exhibit in the National Gallery. The party is taking place in the lobby.”

Greg tries to remember the last time he visited, “So...no art?”

Mycroft nods. “I am aware Sherlock would not stoop so low as to destroy priceless art.”

“There’s a but there.” 

Mycroft’s lip twitches, “But no immediate damage to any art wouldn’t phase him.”

“Ah.” 

“Quite so.” 

“Who’s attending?” 

“Culture minister, amongst others. At the moment the Prime Minister is scheduled.” 

Greg bites his lip. “And you?”

“Unfortunately.” 

“Right, I’m coming with you.” 

 

Mycroft is silent for a moment, and Greg tries to remind himself that he has just invited himself to a major public event. 

“You’re homicide division.” Mycroft says tentatively.

“I’m coming for _you._ ” Greg replies as calmly as he can, heart racing as Mycroft stays worryingly silent. 

“That is incredibly...kind of you.” 

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s shoulder. “Better the two of us be stressed than you carrying the burden alone.” 

Mycroft turns his head to meet Greg’s eyes. His blue-grey eyes are hypnotising and Greg is so drawn into them that he doesn’t realise that Mycroft has spoken. 

“Sorry?” He asks, feeling the heat in his cheeks. 

“We will need to get you fitted for a tuxedo, I doubt you already have one?” 

Greg blinks, “A tuxedo?” 

Mycroft nods, “Yes Gregory, dress code.” 

It occurs to Greg that perhaps he has overstepped the mark, just a tad. “Ah.” 

“My tailor will expect you tomorrow.” Mycroft takes his phone from the desk, quickly typing a message that Greg assumes will go to Anthea. 

“Right.” Greg says in a measured voice. “And in the next three days I’ll try and get to the bottom of this... _thing_.” Greg points at the still shot of the open bag on the screen. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft pauses, “I have a team on it, and extra security for the night in question. Scotland Yard has also been notified.” 

“And myself.” Greg squeezes Mycroft’s shoulder again, anything to maintain some form of contact. 

“Perhaps the most important element. At least you can maintain a civil conversation with those two.” 

Greg blushes, trying not to let the ‘important’ go to his head.

“Well I do attempt to.” 

 

Greg double checks the address on his phone before taking a deep breath and stepping into the store. A man with a measuring tape around his shoulders and the most amazing suit looks up from a book. 

Greg almost does a double take. This man is striking. 

Greg blushes heavily, as the man smiles at him. 

“You must be Gregory then?” 

Greg nods almost shyly. 

“Mycroft’s man.” He raises a brow at Greg and Greg can only nod. 

_Mycroft’s man? Christ, he wishes._

“Well, this is a treat indeed.” He comes around the counter, holding out his hand. “I’m Christian.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Greg shakes his hand.

Christian narrows his eyes, “I have to admit that I’m intrigued. He’s mentioned you quite a few times during his fittings.”

Greg blushes profusely, his heart stuttering worryingly. “He’s talked about me?” He asks in disbelief, hope rearing its head and lighting up. 

Christian gives him a cursory glance, “Of course.” He gestures for Greg to follow him into the fitting area. “I’m getting the impression that perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that.” He smiles wryly. “I thought he’d finally gotten a move on it.” 

“On what?” Greg asks, an edge to his voice. 

“On you, darling. Keep up.” 

 

Greg exits the shop almost as confused as he entered it. 

One thing that stays with him though, is the fact that Mycroft talks about him. 

He can’t help but smile to himself. Hope has returned full force. 

He decides to call to Baker Street. Might as well do it while he’s in a good mood. 

He glances at his watch and frowns, would John and Sherlock even be there? 

It’s worth a try. 

As he drives to Baker Street, he tries to call John. To his dismay, the phone goes straight to voicemail. When he tries Sherlock, the same thing happens. 

“Fuck.” He murmurs under his breath. Already his good mood is starting to dissipate. 

 

Greg knocks on 221B and waits outside. Glancing up, he sees there are no signs of life upstairs. 

“Greg! What a nice surprise!” Mrs. Hudson grins at him. 

“Hello Mrs Hudson.” Greg says politely, trying to ignore the bad feeling that is settling in him. 

“Are they here?” He asks, although he already knows the answer. 

She shakes her head, “No, dearie. They went away for a few days. Scotland I think.”

Greg sighs heavily. 

“Important case? I’m sure he’ll answer his phone.” 

Greg shakes his head, “Tried that already. Both of their phones are off.” 

Mrs Hudson smiles in sympathy. “Oh well, I’m sure you’ll get by.” 

“Of course, thanks.” Greg forces a smile, perhaps he would get by, but Mycroft was already stressed enough to bear this burden too. 

“Come around for tea sometime. I’ll bake some scones.” 

“Sounds lovely, well I’ve got to get going.” 

 

When Greg gets back to the office he calls Mycroft. 

“Gregory?” Mycroft sounds so exhausted that Greg’s heart aches. 

“Christ, you sound exhausted.”

He hears Mycroft sigh, “I admit I haven’t slept. Too many things on my mind.” 

“Sherlock being one of them.” 

“Of course. I suppose you called with an update.” 

Greg bites his lip, wishing he could give him good news. “Well, they seem to be missing in action. Phones off, Mrs Hudson convinced they’re in Scotland for a few days.” 

There’s a long silence from the other end of the call. 

“Wonderful.” The sarcasm is biting. “They haven’t been spotted at all today.” 

“Right. We have tomorrow and then the day of the event.” Greg says encouragingly. 

“Correct.”

Greg glances at the clock on his desk, “Look, have you eaten today?” 

“Not since morning, no.” 

“Right, I’m taking you to dinner.” 

“Is that so?” Greg hopes that he’s hearing amusement in Mycroft’s voice. 

“Yes. I’ve just got about an hour’s worth of paperwork. Where would you like to go? Your choice.” 

Mycroft hums. “Would you be so kind as to meet me in the Diogenes? Perhaps with a Chinese takeaway.” 

“Of course. I’ll see you in about an hour and a half.” 

“Wonderful. Goodbye Gregory.” 

 

On his way through the Diogenes with a bag of takeaway in his hand, Greg worries. Surely Mycroft will make himself sick with all the stress he’s under. 

A large part of Greg wants to reach out, hold Mycroft close. Though he knows that can’t happen. 

He can wish though. 

He knocks the door of Mycroft’s office and hears Mycroft’s voice. Even now, after years, his voice has the power to make Greg’s heart beat just that much faster. 

When he closes the door behind him, he turns. Mycroft is sitting at his desk. If it’s possible, he looks worse than yesterday. Under eye circles almost purple against his pale skin. 

“Mycroft, you look terrible.” Greg moves towards the desk, seeing Mycroft’s mouth twitch. 

“Thank you for that, Gregory.” There’s amusement in his voice. 

“Did you get any sleep at all?” Greg is hit by the longing to hold Mycroft, to be close to him. 

Mycroft shrugs, “An hour perhaps.” 

“I wish I could help.” The words fall out of his mouth without thinking about it.

Mycroft’s gentle smile sends a shock of warmth through Greg’s chest. “Gregory, you are indeed helping by just being here.” 

_Then let me stay with you_ he thinks, but does not say. 

 

Dinner passes in a comfortable silence. They sit beside each other on the sofa in front of the fire. In a way Greg prefers it to the armchairs, for selfish reasons alone; he gets to be closer to Mycroft.

“Thank you for this, Gregory. I didn’t realise how hungry I was.” 

Greg places his hand on Mycroft’s arm, “I told you, I’m always here when you need me.” 

Mycroft leans into him, “Thank you.” He murmurs. 

Greg’s heart thuds in his chest, he pulls Mycroft into a hug, not giving him time to bow out. 

Mycroft makes a small whimper of surprise and Greg almost lets him go, but Mycroft’s arms tentatively wrap around him and Greg’s heart almost breaks. He can feel Mycroft’s uncertainty in his barely-there touch. 

“S’okay. Promise.” Greg whispers. 

 

Greg is on his way back from Christian’s after the final fitting. He’s to pick up his tuxedo in the morning. His phone rings when he’s near Scotland Yard. He can’t help but smile a little when he reads that it’s Mycroft. 

“Hey there.” 

“Gregory, I’m sending you an email with a scan of a letter received by the National Gallery this morning.” 

Greg’s heart drops. Did he really think it would be a social call? 

“Alright, I’m nearly back at the office, I’ll read it there.” 

Mycroft hums in acknowledgement. 

“Bad?” Greg asks. 

Mycroft is silent for a few seconds, “I can’t decide.” He admits, “The spelling is horrific. I think you may have been correct when you said clown college would do better. Perhaps they may even be literate.” 

Greg snorts, “Now that must be bad.” 

“Honestly, it would be almost comical was I not so suspicious about Sherlock’s involvement.” 

“Hey, don’t worry. Loads of people are on the case.” 

Mycroft sighs, “I acknowledge that, yet...” 

“I know.” Greg says reassuringly. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.” 

 

When Greg opens Mycroft’s email, he doesn’t really know what to expect. 

However, a note made from various clippings from a newspaper was not one. 

“B-WarE, B(Picture of a werewolf)...thE 5 nOvber” 

Greg blinks at the screen before laughing out loud. This has to be a joke. 

Greg dials Mycroft’s number, glancing at the screen again and holding back a laugh. 

“What are your thoughts?” Mycroft’s tired voice greets him. 

Greg feels a tug in his chest. “I’m pretty amused if we’re being honest.”

“We are.” 

Greg smiles, “Always.” 

Mycroft’s answering silence unsettles him for a second. 

“They couldn’t even get the quote right.” 

“And that’s what, may I ask?”

Greg sits down, “Well it’s usually ‘remember remember, the fifth of November. But...this is beware, beware the five of a terribly spelt November.”

“The picture of the wolf?” 

“A werewolf, yeah.” Greg says amused. 

Mycroft sighs, “Is this all some elaborate joke to make me uneasy?” There’s an edge to his voice. 

“It’s very possible.” Greg says frowning. “Although I always thought Sherlock was a stickler for grammar.” 

“Yes. However,if this is a joke...” 

“I suppose, yeah.” 

“Gregory, I’m exhausted.” Mycroft’s voice is small. 

Greg’s heart aches for the other man. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Mycroft is silent for a few seconds, and Greg’s heart stutters; will Mycroft take him up on his offer of always being there?

“Unless you have a potentially lethal dose of sleeping pills, I highly doubt it.” 

“Don’t say that, Myc.” Greg whispers. 

He hears Mycroft sigh, then a noise in the background. “I apologise Gregory, but I’m expected at Downing Street.” 

“Alright, remember what I said?”

“Always. Thank you.” Mycroft murmurs before ending the call. 

 

Greg has a hunch and he follows it through, hoping. 

“Hello?” 

Greg sighs in relief, “Hi Molly, how are you?” 

“Greg, how nice to hear from you.” There’s a loud crash close to her, definitely glass shattering on the floor. “Oh.” She mutters, voice further from the phone. 

“Everything alright?” 

_“You idiot!”_

_“Me?! Oh that’s rich.”_

_“Shut up! He’ll hear us.”_

“Yep. Bye Greg. Sorry.” Molly hangs up immediately. 

Greg’s hunch turns out to have been right indeed, the voices although slightly distorted were definitely those of John and Sherlock. 

Greg grabs his keys and is about to leave his office when Sally rushes in. 

“Homicide in Hyde Park, we need to leave now.” 

Greg nods, “I’ll follow you down.” as he grabs his coat he rings Anthea. 

“Detective Inspector.” She answers immediately, voice bored. 

“Right, I would do this myself but I’ve to go to a crime scene. Sherlock and John are with Molly Hooper, I’m assuming at Bart’s. Could you follow that up?”  
He hears movement, computer keys. “No problem.”

“Great, ta.” Greg murmurs, waiting for the lift. 

“Greg?” 

“Yes?” He asks, managing to find a spot in the lift. 

“Thank you for looking out for him like this.” 

“I’ll do anything I can.” 

There’s a brief silence, a hum of approval. “I’ll keep you updated.” 

 

Seven hours later, Greg arrives back at his apartment absolutely drenched. 

He’s hoping his phone is dead because of low battery and not down to him having to stand in a thundershower examining the scene. 

He has a bundle of paperwork safe inside his briefcase, and upon opening his door, it takes him a few seconds too long to realise that the sitting room light should _not_ be on. 

He curses himself, if there is anyone in here they would have heard him come in the door. There was no point in being quiet now. 

He takes off his soaked coat and hangs it up. “Right.” He announces to the (hopefully) empty apartment. There’s no answering noise. 

Maybe he left the light on before he left for work?  
He looks around the room, nothing is out of place. 

Greg’s almost calm by the time he moves to the kitchen. 

There’s two mugs out on the counter by the kettle and Greg stops in the doorway. 

He doesn’t even have a phone right now. But an intruder who appears to have tea on the menu doesn’t seem that threatening.

“Sherlock?” Greg shouts, hearing something fall against the bathroom tiles, he rushes through his bedroom, and is met by a scarlet Mycroft Holmes. 

 

“Mycroft?” Greg stares at the man in shock. 

“I apologise, Gregory, I-“ 

Greg chuckles, he can’t help it. “Is my apartment really so easy to break into?” 

Mycroft’s still blushing, but he seems surprised by Greg’s amusement. “You’re not angry?”

Greg shrugs, “You’re not here to murder me, are you?” 

“No…I, um, I ran you a bath.” Mycroft mumbles. 

Greg raises an eyebrow. 

Mycroft runs his fingers through his hair, clearly frustrated with himself. 

Greg takes a few steps closer to him. “Hey, it’s fine. Thank you.” 

“I needed to talk to you, but it was clear your phone was off.” Mycroft begins, “The quickest option would be here. You’ve been stuck in rain for the last few hours...it made sense at the time.” 

Greg moves towards Mycroft, reaching out to touch his arm. “It was thoughtful.” 

Mycroft seems to relax a little at Greg’s touch. 

“I’ll fill you in when you’ve bathed. Otherwise the water will cool.” 

Greg nods, smiling. “Go get yourself some tea.” He murmurs, he leans in despite himself and presses the lightest kiss against Mycroft’s cheek. “Thank you, Myc.” 

Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath is all Greg hears as he walks away. 

 

It’s been ages since Greg had a bath; the shower is quicker and he’s usually pressed for time. He sighs as the warm water soaks his muscles. This is glorious. 

He tries to remember that Mycroft is in his apartment. Somehow that sets his heart racing all over again. He slides down into the water, closing his eyes as he does so. 

He tries to focus on the heat of the water, the smell of lavender. 

If he focuses, he can hear the kettle boiling in the kitchen, hear the click of Mycroft’s shoes across the kitchen tiles. 

He tries to ignore the thought that tells him this could be them both some day. 

His mind zeroes in on Mycroft’s reaction to the kiss on the cheek, and Greg desperately tries to escape from this all too familiar spiral. 

Sure, he thinks about this regularly, but not tonight. Not while Mycroft’s really here. 

 

Greg wraps a towel around his waist and walks into his room in search of something comfortable. With a glance at his alarm clock he reasons that he has every right to be allowed to put on pyjamas. 

He grabs clean clothes out of his wardrobe and dresses. He’s certain he can hear Mycroft speaking in the next room. 

 

Greg comes out of his bedroom, and sees Mycroft staring out the window. He’s on the phone and doesn’t notice Greg. 

Greg leans against the doorframe, watching the other man. 

_You could come home to this._ The thought goes through his head, similar to the one from when he was in the bath. Greg’s cheeks heat and he decides to go get some tea. 

Mycroft murmurs something, glances back at Greg and smiles tiredly. 

Greg goes about the motions of making his own tea, desperately trying to avoid the domestic scenarios that he longs for between them. 

 

Mycroft walks in behind Greg silently, his phone not in sight. 

Greg turns around, concern flooding through him at how exhausted Mycroft looks. 

“Alright?” 

Mycroft sighs, leaning against the fridge. “Thanks to you, John Watson has been found.” 

Greg feels a little tension leave his body. “With Molly?” 

Mycroft nods, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Thank you, Gregory.” 

Greg waves his hand in the air, “Sherlock?” 

Mycroft shakes his head, “No, he fled as soon as your conversation ended with Miss Hooper. Apparently she was quite apologetic.” 

Greg takes a sip of his tea, thinking it over. “And what have you done with John?” He asks, “Am I even allowed to ask?” He hopes the injection of humour will do something to ease Mycroft. 

He feels pleased when a genuine smirk crosses Mycroft’s face. “Sent him to Antarctica.” 

Greg snorts, “Damn it, m’gonna have to find a new drinking buddy.” He eyes Mycroft meaningfully. A slight blush appears on Mycroft’s cheeks, making Greg’s heart stutter. 

“Dr Watson is in holding. He’s refusing to say much, definitely nothing about Sherlock’s location. I believe the only words he’s greeted Anthea with are ‘tell Mycroft to go fuck himself.’” 

Greg feels a pull of sadness in his chest. He leaves his mug on the counter behind him and closes the slight distance between him, and without really thinking about it, he pulls Mycroft into a hug. 

He can feel Mycroft hesitate for a brief second, then his arms wrap around Greg’s waist, and he rests his head on Greg’s shoulder. 

 

They stay like that for a while, Greg holds Mycroft close. 

“Have you eaten today?” He asks. 

Greg can feel Mycroft sigh. “Not since breakfast.” 

Greg reluctantly leaves the hug. He caresses Mycroft’s cheek. “Too late for a takeaway. Some toast and jam?” 

Mycroft’s eyes are open, “You’re too good to me.” 

Greg shakes his head, “Not even close.” 

Before Mycroft can protest, Greg turns around and goes to fetch some bread from the bread bin, turning on the toaster. 

Greg can feel Mycroft’s gaze on him as he prepares the toast and it sends a shiver down his spine. 

He fetches two jars of jam from the fridge, turning to meet Mycroft’s eyes, “Blueberry or raspberry?” 

Mycroft sends him a gentle smile that Greg wants to commit to memory for the rest of his life. 

“Both.” 

Greg grins at him, startling at the toast popping out of the toaster. 

He hears Mycroft chuckle and the sound warms him infinitely. 

Greg places two slices on each plate, gesturing to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. 

Mycroft takes them both and sits down. 

“Tea?” Greg asks. 

“That would be wonderful.” 

 

They eat in silence, and Greg glances at his watch, seeing it’s almost midnight. 

Mycroft doesn’t miss the move and glances at his own, frowning. “I should go.” 

“Stay the night.” The words come without thinking about it, but they seem right. 

Mycroft blinks, looking as though he’s convinced he’s misheard Greg. 

“I can lend you pyjamas.” Greg says easily, aware of the heat in his cheeks. 

Mycroft is silent, as though he’s trying to work the option through. “Gregory...” He murmurs, “I most likely will be unable to sleep. I’d be a burden.” 

Greg reaches across the small space between them, lightly resting his hand over Mycroft’s, Mycroft just stares at their hands, not moving. 

“Mycroft,” He says steadily, waiting for Mycroft to meet his gaze. When the other man does, Greg squeezes his hand. “You will never be a burden. Plus, if you can’t sleep it’s better to stare at the ceiling with someone else rather than alone.” 

“Perhaps you do have a point.” Mycroft murmurs. 

Greg grins, “Problem shared is a problem halved after all.” 

 

“There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet under the sink, you’re welcome to shower if you’d like too.” Greg says evenly as he hands Mycroft an old pair of pyjamas. 

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs, disappearing into the bathroom.

While Mycroft is gone, Greg manages to bring his phone back to life. A notice for a missed call from Mycroft pops up. There’s messages too. 

He gets into bed and opens them as he hears the shower start in the other room. 

 

_17:45] John taken care of. Good call. -A_

 

_23:13] Could you call when you have the chance? -A_

 

Greg immediately calls Anthea back. She answers on the second ring, sounding awake despite the time. 

“Greg.” She greets. 

“Hi Anthea, only turning on my phone now.” 

“Mycroft is staying with you?” 

Greg shifts uneasily at the slight edge in her voice. “Yeah...I-” He pauses at a loss for words. “I thought the company would help. Not being able to sleep and...yeah...” He manages, suddenly awkward. 

Anthea is silent for a few excruciating seconds. “Take care of him.” Greg’s known her long enough to hear the threat underneath her words. 

“Of course.” He promises, “Any luck with John?”

A bitter laugh is the response he gets. “He’s not talking. I don’t believe Sherlock will actually try and pull some theatrics, just knowing that the prospect of it is terrorising Mycroft is enough for him. But it is Sherlock. Unfortunately.” 

“We still have tomorrow.” 

“There’ll be extra security and screening at the event tomorrow night.” 

“Keep each other updated then?” Greg asks as he hears the shower shut off. 

“Yes. Goodnight.” She says before ending the call. 

 

Greg is scrolling through his emails on his phone when Mycroft emerges from the bathroom. His hair is wet, already there are a few stray curls and Greg can’t stop the wave of fondness that floods through him at the sight. 

_This could be every night_ , a voice in the back of Greg’s head informs him. 

Greg tries to brush it away, returning Mycroft’s amused smile when he sees that the pyjama trousers are too short for Mycroft, just about reaching his ankles. 

“I think this is perhaps one of the rare moments that I’ve taken attention of our slight height difference.”

Greg chuckles, “In fairness, they’ve been thrown in the dryer enough to have shrunk too.” 

Mycroft hesitates at the foot of the bed, a blush forming on his cheeks. 

Greg pats the empty side of the bed, “C’mon.” 

Greg’s breath catches in his throat when Mycroft blesses him with a shy, tired smile. 

 

Greg pulls the duvet up around them, and rolls to his side. He watches Mycroft in silence, willing his heart to calm itself. Mycroft is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Alright?” Greg murmurs, a hint of worry in his voice. 

Mycroft turns his head, “It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a bed.” 

Greg smiles gently, “Me too.” Then he frowns, “I could always kip on the sofa if this makes you uncomfortable.” 

Mycroft surprises him by chuckling. “Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”

Greg laughs too, “I guess.” He’s thoughtful for a second. “C’mere.” 

Mycroft’s eyes widen, but he shifts closer to Greg, rolling onto his side. 

“Is this alight?” Greg asks as he drapes an arm across Mycroft’s waist. 

Mycroft can only nod and Greg’s heart threatens to deafen him. 

“Sometimes it’s more calming to just hold someone.” He murmurs, he can feel the heat in his cheeks. 

Mycroft gives him a tentative smile, but he shifts closer, until there’s only a few centimetres between them, for which Greg is incredibly grateful for. 

“Thank you for this, Gregory.” 

“Anything for you.” Greg whispers, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s. 

He could do it, he could try and kiss him. His heart thuds in his chest, Mycroft can probably even bloody hear it, Greg wouldn’t be surprised. 

But he’s not going to risk ruining things, not like this. Never like this. 

 

They talk for a while, Greg aware of Mycroft’s sleeplessness. 

When there’s a lull in their conversation, something deliberately boring and unexciting as hell, Mycroft yawns. 

Greg cracks a triumphant smile, “Boring you to the point of sleep, am I?” He teases. 

“It seems so.” Mycroft pauses, “Your voice is unbelievably soothing.” 

Greg pulls Mycroft closer, he wants and _wants_ , but he can’t. Not now. “I’m glad. Now where were we?” 

Mycroft yawns again, “I do believe you were telling me about that time an elderly woman told you her whole life story before mentioning that she’d lost her dog and expected you to find him.”

Greg huffs a laugh, “Right so. Let’s see will I be able to bore you further.” Greg keeps talking. He feels Mycroft relax beside him, his breathing evening out. 

He feels a wave of fondness rush through him when he’s sure that Mycroft is asleep. He presses a gentle kiss to the other man’s forehead before closing his own eyes. 

 

Greg wakes up a few hours later thanks to the ungodly high pitched beeping of his alarm. 

Mycroft is curled up around Greg, head resting on Greg’s chest, mouth slightly open and snoring softly. 

Greg feels like his heart could explode with at the sight. 

_This could be every morning,_ the persistent voice is back in Greg’s head. 

Even thinking about the prospect of waking up like this every morning is going to wreck him. 

He shifts slowly and awkwardly, trying not to wake the other man, thankful for the small mercy that Mycroft’s body is not touching his crotch. He dreads the thought of his morning erection making things unbearably awkward. 

When Greg turns off his alarm, sitting up in bed, Mycroft shifts. 

Greg stills, watching Mycroft’s eyes flutter. His hand rests high on Greg’s thigh and Greg can feel his heart stutter at the unexpected movement. 

 

Mycroft’s peaceful expression rapidly dissipates once he opens his eyes. 

Greg immediately realises that Mycroft doesn’t remember where he is. He reaches out, gently touching Mycroft’s shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “Hey, Myc?”

Mycroft scrambles to sit upright at the touch, and blindly grabs Greg’s arm and twists.

Greg immediately regrets his decision, what was he even thinking? “Fuck, Mycroft, stop!” 

Mycroft’s grip only tightens, as he edges his way away from Greg before turning his head to meet Greg’s pained expression. 

“It’s just me.” Greg manages through gritted teeth.

Greg can almost see Mycroft’s thought process flicker across his face. It goes from alarmed, to distressed, to confused before he sees a hint of recognition and Mycroft immediately lets go of Greg’s arm. 

“Jesus.” Greg murmurs, bringing his arm to his chest. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you.”

Mycroft’s watching him uneasily, “Gregory…I apologise…I didn’t remember where I was. I-“ 

Greg massages his arm, “Completely understandable. It was stupid of me.” 

Mycroft sends him a pained, panicked look in response and it’s like a punch in the chest to Greg. 

“S’okay, really Myc.”

 

When Greg comes into the kitchen after dressing he’s met with Mycroft sitting at the small table, a bowl of cereal in front of him. Instead of eating, he’s staring morosely at his phone. 

“Alright?” Greg asks as he fetches the coffee from the cupboard above him, biting his lip as a pain shoots through his arm. 

Mycroft hums, and Greg turns feeling a sense of unease run through him. Mycroft merely hands him his phone. On the screen is a message from Sherlock, no words, just a firework emoji. 

Greg meets Mycroft’s gaze and he’s shocked to see the intensity of dread in his eyes.

Mycroft sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “If Sherlock does pull off this stunt and the knowledge that the one who pulled off these theatrics is my brother, my career is ruined.” 

The longing to hold the other man courses through Greg. “Mycroft.” He says evenly, “He won’t get the chance to do a thing.” He’s determined, it shows in his voice. Mycroft hears it too. 

“What would I do without you, Gregory?” 

Greg stares at him, hoping that the softness of his gaze is noticed, the gentleness of his smile. 

“I ask the same question about you every day.” He confesses. 

They watch each other, a delicate silence surrounds them. 

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak but they’re both startled when his phone beeps. Mycroft checks it, sighing. “My car is here, I need to go home and change. You’re picking up your tuxedo today, correct?” 

Greg’s chest aches at the sudden formality of the conversation. He nods, “Yeah, about midday.”

Mycroft rises from his seat, coming over to Greg. Greg holds his breath. “Thank you for last night.” Mycroft murmurs, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss on Greg’s cheek; like what Greg did to him last night. “It feels good to have even gotten a few hours sleep.” 

“As I said, anything you need.” Greg whispers, voice strained, his heartbeat spiking at their closeness. 

Mycroft smiles; a genuine, gentle masterpiece. “I look forward to seeing you later.” 

Greg caresses Mycroft’s cheek; his skin warm and soft underneath his fingers. He catches Mycroft shiver at the touch, and Greg feels like he’ll burst. “Have a good day, I’ll keep you updated. Try not to worry.” 

 

When Greg gets back to the office, a suit bag thrown over his arm he thinks back to what Christian said to him. 

He’d had to fit on the tuxedo to ensure everything was fine. Christian watched him in the mirror, a proud smile on his face. “Perhaps tonight will be the night.”

“Hm?” Greg had turned to him confused. 

Greg received a bright eyed, suggestive smile. “Very hard to resist a man in a well-tailored suit.” 

Greg swallowed, “I resist Mycroft every day. You make his suits; they’re all well-tailored.” He’d long since given up on pretending to not be interested in Mycroft. Christian knew from the beginning. 

“Hm.” He blushed at the compliment, “But he has never seen you in a well-tailored suit.”

“Oi, I wear suits.”

The other man snorted, “Prêt-à-porter is in no way equal to a bespoke suit, Detective Inspector. Just you wait and see.”

Sally catches him just outside his office, following him in. “What’s the occasion?” She asks, arching an eyebrow. 

Greg hangs the suit on the back of his door. “Joining Mycroft at an event at the National Gallery this evening.” 

Sally’s eyes light up, “A date? Fucking finally!”

Greg blushes, “It’s not like that.” 

“Greg, you’ve been pining over the man for years. What do you mean ‘it’s not like that’?” 

“Sherlock’s being a bollocks that’s what.” He grumbles. 

“Oh for fucks sake.” She pauses, “Wait, did he ask you to come with him?” 

Greg shakes his head embarrassed. “Kinda invited myself along. Trying to help.” 

“Idiot.” She says playfully. “Wait, is this the reason for the security alert?”

Greg nods. 

“Stop letting Sherlock on cases for a month or so, should solve that.” She shrugs before turning and leaving. 

 

“No tracking on his phone.” Anthea doesn’t even say hello. 

“I had guessed as much.” Greg bites back, holding back on the fact he’s not actually that much of an idiot. “I’ve made a move.”  
“I don’t follow.” 

“Sent Sherlock a text detailing how he’s officially not permitted on any of Scotland Yard’s cases for the next two months if he doesn’t cop on.”

“Genius, did you get a reply?” He can hear the approval in her voice.

“Well it was Sally’s idea.” He confesses, “Just ‘you wouldn’t dare’, naturally I would.”

“Gives him some time to think it over.” 

Greg hums in agreement, “Just thought I should let you know. Mycroft wasn’t answering his phone.”

“He’s in a meeting.” She pauses, “You managed to get him some sleep?” Her voice is softer now.

“Yeah. Hoping that helps him.” 

“He looks significantly better than yesterday. Good job. See you later, Greg.” 

 

14:23]

_You need me too much to ban me. -SH_

 

_14:30]_

_[Attachment: Picture Message] Form just needs to be signed by Chief Super and your out on your ear -GL_

 

_14:31]_

_You’re all idiots, you’ll never solve anything. -SH_

 

_14:33]_

_Oi, I’ve been doing this for over 20 years, I’m more than capable. -GL_

 

_14:33]_

_It’s only a few fireworks. Excitement. -SH_

 

_14:34]_

_You do know that you’re terrorising your brother? -GL_

 

_14:36]_

_That was the plan. -SH_

 

_14:37]_

_Cop on. -GL_

 

_14:37]_

_You’re enamoured. It’s disgusting. -SH_

 

_14:45]_

_And you’re being childish. -GL_

 

_14:46]_

_You’re in love with my brother, that’s worse than being childish. Insanity. Horrific. -SH_

 

_15:00]_

_[Attachment: Picture Message] Signed. You’re out. -GL_

 

 

Greg leaves the office just after four to go home and shower and shave. 

Sally raises an eyebrow at him suggestively, amusement on her face. “Have a good night.” She emphasises the good. “Hope you figure out where the other little shit is.” 

“Thanks, Sally. I hope so too.” 

“Make a move. I don’t want to work with a miserable bastard tomorrow.”

Greg chuckles, “Well aren’t you glad I’m off tomorrow?”

Sally is silent for a second, “Oh god, you’ll have a whole day to fixate on it. That’s worse. Make a bloody move, boss. Or I’ll make it for you. No more pining.” 

Greg’s phone ringing allows him to make an escape. 

“Hi Mycroft.” 

“Gregory. Any news?” 

Greg waits for the lift to arrive. “Well, I’ve been in contact with Sherlock- by text mind you.”

“Oh?” Greg’s heart could break at the hope he can hear in the other man’s voice. 

“Well, I’ve banned him from crime scenes for two months, officially signed and all. Hopefully that makes him rethink his choices.”

Mycroft hums, “If anything would, it would be that.” 

“Yeah, look I’m going to go home and get ready, I should be at the gallery by seven, it doesn’t start until eight, right?” 

“Correct. I apologise, but I won’t be there until eight at the earliest.” 

“That’s fine. I’m going to have a look around, see can I find the bastard.”

Mycroft is silent for a few seconds, “Thank you for this.” 

Greg smiles as he walks towards his car; there’s probably a CCTV camera here. “Like I said, anything.” 

“Some of our agents are already there. Security also. I believe Anthea and her partner will be there around the same time as you.” 

“Great, I’ll see you later.”

“You will.” Mycroft murmurs, Greg hears him take a steadying breath. “I...I look forward to seeing you, Gregory. Despite everything else.” He admits awkwardly. 

“Me too, Myc. Me too.” 

 

Greg arrives early enough. He feels out of place even wearing the tuxedo. He had stared at himself in the mirror, hoping that Mycroft would find this somewhat attractive at least. 

There was the slightest worry that if some confrontation happened with Sherlock, the chances he could ruin the suit were very high. 

The taxi manages to find a parking space by sheer luck, hoping that this is a good sign he makes his way to the front of the building. 

Anthea is waiting for him, dressed in a well tailored suit with cropped trousers, wearing black heels, and she’s standing beside a slightly taller woman in a deep blue dress.   
  
Greg notices that the other woman has her hand around Anthea’s waist. Around her own waist is a silk ribbon with the pattern of the Starry Night, matching the blue of her dress. Anthea’s bow tie is the same pattern.

“Greg, this is Olivia, my partner.” 

Greg reaches out his hand for her to shake. “Nice to meet you, Olivia.” 

Her grip is strong, “You too. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Greg blushes, god only knows what’s been said. Actually, he’d prefer not to know.

“Olivia is part of MI5. She’s also here to try reign in Sherlock.” 

Greg glances between the two of them admiringly. “The more the merrier.” 

“I believe you’ve banned him from crime scenes for the foreseeable?” Olivia queries. 

Greg shifts, “Yeah.” He sighs, his eyes scanning the small crowd that’s beginning to arrive. “Hoped it would work but-“ He cuts off, his eyes landing on the familiar face of the leader of Sherlock’s group, who just happens to be staring directly at Greg. Fucking idiot. 

Anthea and Olivia regard him with a mix of confusion and concern. 

“It’s the ringleader, Dean. He’s over there by the tree, the one staring at us with the blue jacket.” 

Anthea and Olivia don’t immediately glance back. “How idiotic is he?” Anthea murmurs. 

“Ready? Try and get him?” Olivia asks. 

Greg and Anthea both nod simultaneously. “Doubt it will be that hard.” Anthea mutters.

 

Greg’s sure that he’s never seen a chase run as smoothly. 

Once Anthea and Olivia had turned, the man took off. 

Greg now has an immense appreciation of how Anthea could run as fast in high heels, and how Olivia could run in heels and an ankle length dress. Must be part of training when you become a spy, he thinks. 

Anthea had obviously managed to get in contact with some of the other security guards, because as soon as they noticed the three of them running after the guy, they managed to stop him. 

One of the men immediately handcuffs Dean. Anthea steps forward, her face like stone. Greg sees a hint of fear run through the man and honestly Greg doesn’t blame him. 

“Where are Sherlock and the fireworks?” 

“No idea.” 

Anthea laughs, it’s unamused and dangerous. It sends a shiver down his spine. He even sees Dean pale. 

“Do you really want to play that game?”

“Not really.” 

One of the security guards snorts and shakes his head in apology. 

“Then don’t.” Anthea’s voice is like ice. 

Dean shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “Can show you where the fireworks are, but Sherlock wouldn’t tell me where he will be.”

“I wonder why.” Olivia mutters sarcastically. A hint of a smile threatens to break out on Anthea’s face, but she remains focussed on Dean. 

“Show us then.” 

 

Dean leads them towards a catering van and opens the back doors. 

Greg hears one of the security guards behind him whistle at the sight. There are stacks of fireworks. 

“Is this everything?” Anthea asks as Olivia moves forward and picks up some of the fireworks, examining them carefully. 

Dean nods, “Far as I know.” 

“And Sherlock?” Greg asks, “Have you really heard nothing?” 

The other man shakes his head, “Not since mornin’, i was looking for him when you saw me.”

“He going with yours or the Yard?” Greg asks.

“Oh ours most definitely.” Anthea murmurs as she gestures to the security guards who have arrived. “Get this out of here too.” She nods at the van. They merely nod and get to work. 

“Well that could have been explosive.” Olivia says dryly causing Anthea to roll her eyes, a grin blooming on her lips. 

“I’ll text Mycroft, yeah?” Greg asks, already reaching for his pocket. 

Anthea watches him steadily, “Good idea. Hopefully knowing the fireworks are gone should help ease the panic.”

 

_19:20]_

_Myc, we have the leader and recovered all fireworks. All are being taken off scene. See you soon. -GL_

 

_19:21]_

_Wonderful. -MH_

 

When Greg returns his phone to his pocket, he glances up to see Anthea watching him intently. 

He feels self-conscious and weary; Anthea can be nothing short of terrifying. 

Olivia is talking to a woman that’s in gallery uniform that Greg guesses is an agent a few metres away, meaning Anthea’s focus is solely on him.

“You’re good to him.” She says after she sees him shift uncomfortably under her gaze. “You’d be good for each other. Think about it.” 

Greg feels a blush cross heat his face. “I think about it a lot.” He confesses. 

A hint of a smile graces her lips. “So does he.” 

Greg can’t help but relax a little, a sense of relief flows through him. When Anthea sees this, her smile becomes genuine. 

She places her hand on his arm, “Tonight might be the night.” 

Greg raises an eyebrow, “Is that a polite way of telling me to make a move? ‘Cause you’d be the third person today.” 

Her answering laugh is startling; Greg’s sure he’s never heard her laugh before. 

“Perhaps.” 

 

Greg decides to take a walk around the periphery of the gallery. His thoughts are on Mycroft, but the sense of unease about Sherlock seems to have made a home inside of him.

Around the back, there’s a few catering vans, and Greg notices that they’re all being thoroughly checked by some of the lads that Greg vaguely recognises from the Yard. 

The sound of glass shattering can be heard over the commotion surrounding them, and Greg scans the space. 

He spots a waitress picking up a silver tray, gathering the shards of glass carefully from the ground. 

“You alright?” Greg asks as he walks over. 

She glances up at him, annoyance clear on her features. “Oh yeah.” She says bitingly, “I’ve just broken glasses worth at least a month’s pay because some bastard wasn’t looking where he was going. Fucking phones.” 

Greg flinches at her tone, but it’s like a revelation. “What’d he look like?” 

“What are you, police?” 

Greg slips his badge from his pocket, “I am actually.”

“Red head, tall, thin. Hair looked weird though, like a cheap wig, but I dunno.” She shrugs. When she sees Greg watch her, she sighs. “Wearing a chef’s outfit. That’s it.” 

“And he went inside?” 

She sighs again, clearly trying to illustrate that she really doesn’t want to be talking to him. 

“Yeah, that door there.” She points behind her, Greg doesn’t waste a moment, he runs in taking his phone out as he goes. 

“Greg?” Anthea greets him. 

“Pretty sure Sherlock’s inside, wearing a chef’s uniform, ginger wig. I’m going in now.” 

“We’ll be there shortly, try find him.” The dial tone is all that Greg hears. 

 

Greg ends up in the area where caterers are busily setting out trays of all sorts of food on long tables. On the first glance, he sees about five or six people in a white chef’s uniforms. 

He scans the crowd, eyes sharp. 

His eyes land on a tall, ginger haired man in the far corner. His back is turned and he appears to be doing something to a cake. Greg frowns, and makes way over cautiously. 

He meets eyes with a guy in a waiter’s uniform who’s watching him carefully. Presuming it’s one of Mycroft’s men, he inclines his head towards the corner. 

The man nods once, following behind Greg at a decent distance. 

Greg’s sure it’s Sherlock. As he approaches him, he sees that he’s sprinkling something on the cake from a small container. He seems to be pleased with himself as he quickly returns whatever he has to his pocket. 

Greg comes up behind him, grabbing his arm tightly, trying to be as discreet as possible. 

“In fairness, the ginger makes you stick out.” He says steadily. 

Sherlock tries to twist out of his grip, but the man that had followed Greg grabs him. 

Greg has fallen victim to Sherlock’s many disguises before, not even knowing him that well at the beginning. Even now for an odd case Sherlock will don a whole new persona to search out new evidence. 

This disguise seems half-hearted and if Greg looks close enough, he can see telltale signs that it’s Sherlock.

“Now what were you doing to the cake?” 

Sherlock huffs a laugh, “Nothing all that serious.” 

Greg stares at him steadily.

“Where’s John?” 

Greg shrugs, “Don’t know the exact location, but not anywhere near fireworks.” 

“Pity.” Sherlock murmurs. 

“What are you trying to do?”

A smile threatens on Sherlock’s face, his mouth twitching. “Driving Mycroft up the wall is a brilliant remedy for boredom.”

 

“Sherlock.” Anthea and Olivia appear beside Greg. 

“Wicked witch of the West.” Sherlock greets. 

Greg has to tell himself to count to ten. “I’d get rid of that cake, he poured something on it.” 

Olivia steps forward, “Shall do, Greg.” She carefully picks it up and disappears. 

“Are you done then?” Anthea asks Sherlock, arms crossed, glare activated. 

“Think so.” Sherlock smiles triumphantly. 

Greg glances at Anthea, wondering what comes next.

“Take him away.” She murmurs to the man beside Greg. 

He nods, bringing the highly satisfied Sherlock away with him. 

Anthea turns towards Greg. “Good job. Mycroft has arrived, why don’t you go find him? I’ll take care of everything here.” 

Greg smiles, a nervousness running through him. “Will do, ta.” 

Anthea steps forward to adjust Greg’s bowtie, then brushes off his shoulders. “Looking good.” 

“Thanks for this.” He says sincerely. 

“My pleasure. Now go.” She shoos him away and Greg turns to find his way to the reception, eyes searching for Mycroft’s familiar face. 

 

Greg feels a sense of relief when he spots Mycroft in the crowd. He has his back turned to Greg and is in conversation with a vaguely familiar woman that Greg can’t quite place.   
  
Mycroft’s stature is tense, Greg can see that even from the distance. He slowly approaches them, catching part of the conversation. 

“-and you, still alone. Really Mycroft, such a shame.” 

“Hmm.” Mycroft mutters, clearly exhausted and close to losing his patience. 

Greg takes a deep breath, coming up behind Mycroft. He wraps an arm around his waist, feeling Mycroft startle at the contact. He turns his head to Greg, brows furrowed. 

“Hello, love. Sorry I’m late.” He leans in to press a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. 

Mycroft stares at him in shock for a split second before bursting out the most gorgeous smile that has Greg weak at the knees. 

“Perfectly fine, dear.” Mycroft leans into him.

_God, I wish_ Greg thinks. 

“Oh!” The woman exclaims, “And who’s this?”

“This is my partner, Gregory. Gregory, meet Annette. She hosts morning television.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Greg lies, reaching out his free hand to shake her own. 

“How long have you both been together?” 

Mycroft opens his mouth to reply, but Greg cuts in. “Must be about five months now, yeah?” 

Mycroft grins at him, “I believe so.” 

Annette looks over Mycroft’s shoulder, seeing someone trying to catch her attention. “Well it’s about bloody time. I’m glad for you both. I best be off.” 

When she disappears, some of the tension disappears from Mycroft’s body.

“How dare she.” Greg says without thinking, 

Mycroft merely shrugs, “I’m almost immune to it by now. Thank you for what you did.” 

 

Greg doesn’t remove his arm from around Mycroft’s waist. Instead he leans in and hears Mycroft’s breath hitch. “Sherlock has been taken care of, the fireworks too. Time to relax.”

Greg’s heart speeds up as the look of complete relief spreads across Mycroft’s features.

“Honestly?”

Greg leans in to Mycroft again, “I’d never lie to you.” 

They share a few seconds silence between them;a look of understanding passes between them and Greg finds he has an overwhelming urge to kiss the other man. 

“So five months, is it?” Mycroft asks, his eyes darting down to Greg’s lips, and Greg leans in closer. 

“Five very happy months.” He murmurs, relishing the content smile that crosses Mycroft’s face. 

“Thank you.” 

Greg nods, “My pleasure.” He sees a waiter with a tray of champagne. “Will I grab us a drink?” 

“That would be wonderful.” 

Greg leans in closer, kissing Mycroft on the cheek again, so tempted to kiss him properly, but he manages to restrain himself. 

Not here.

If it’s going to happen, which he desperately hopes so, he wants it to be private. Intimate. 

 

When Greg turns to make his way back to Mycroft, carefully holding two champagne flutes, he’s taken off guard by Mycroft’s expression. 

He’s unapologetically taking in Greg, his eyes trailing up and down his body in appreciation. 

As soon as he notices that Greg has seen him, a dark blush spreads across his cheeks. 

Greg returns to him feeling giddy with anticipation. 

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice shakes slightly, his eyes darker than before. “You look exquisite. Dashing.” 

Greg hands him his champagne flute, purposely brushing fingers with Mycroft. 

“I was told a well-fitted suit makes a man.” Greg thinks of Christian, how he seemed sure that this suit would ‘get a move’ on both of them. 

“Mhm.” Mycroft unashamedly trails his eyes down Greg’s body again. “That it does.” 

It was Greg’s turn to blush, the wanting longing he’d felt for Mycroft for years hits him anew. 

He takes a drink and frowns, “Was expecting nicer champagne to be honest.” 

Mycroft laughs quietly, his eyes sparkling. Greg’s heart seems to be having some difficulty keeping itself at a healthy rhythm. 

“Drinks are never good at public events.” He takes a sip of his own, making a face of distaste that has Greg chuckling. 

“Mycroft Holmes!” They both turn around in the direction of the voice. 

Greg hoped the surprise on his face wasn’t as evident as he felt. 

“Theresa.” Mycroft greets evenly. “How are you?”

“Perhaps as exhausted as you look.” Her eyes fall on Greg, alertness clear in her gaze. Greg could see her assess their proximity to each other, their complimenting bow ties. 

“And who is this, may I ask?” 

Mycroft casts a brief glance at Greg who only smiles reassuringly. 

“This is my partner, Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft doesn’t hesitate on the word partner, but Greg can hear a hint of a smile in his voice. “Gregory, this is Theresa, as I’m sure you are aware.” 

Greg reaches out to shake her hand, she grips his tightly. “You look familiar.” 

“I’m a DCI in the Yard, probably seen my picture in the paper.” 

She hums approvingly, glancing back at Mycroft. “I’m glad for you both.” She smiles and Greg wraps his arm around Mycroft’s waist again, feeling Mycroft lean into him. 

“Did you receive my brief earlier today?” 

  
Greg glances around the room as he hears Mycroft smoothly explain that he’s already sent it back with recommendations and annotations. 

“Oh…how on earth do you manage to get things done?” 

Greg returns his attention towards Mycroft, who is clearly amused. “I merely sit down and do them.” 

Greg meets Mycroft’s gaze, his grey blue eyes are shining. 

He vaguely hears Theresa murmur something but he’s not paying attention. He’s lost in Mycroft’s eyes. 

Mycroft’s watching him too, unblinking.   
  
If Greg thinks that he’s lost, maybe, just maybe Mycroft is too. Mycroft’s gaze is searching, and Greg smiles at him, hoping the words _I want this, I want you_ are written on his face, that Mycroft can read him so well. 

Theresa’s voice, louder than before interrupts them. Mycroft clears his throat, a slight blush forming on his cheeks. 

He looks back towards Theresa, but he leans closer into Greg’s side, Greg only tightens his grip around Mycroft’s waist.  
  
“Pardon?” There’s a slight edge to Mycroft’s voice.  
  
She watches them both intently for a few agonising seconds. “You, Mycroft.” She nods, “So intent and in love, almost as though you are a different person. Never would have thought you’d be capable of it.” The last words have a subtle viciousness in them that Greg hears all too clearly.  
  
Greg feels Mycroft stiffen beside him, and is pretty sure his own heart nearly stops at her words.  
  
“Nice to see. I’ll leave you both to it then, nice meeting you.” She nods at Greg and easily falls into conversation with someone a few metres away from them.  
  
Greg curses her. Mycroft is silent, he hasn’t moved away from Greg’s hold, but he has frozen.  
  
Greg risks a glance at Mycroft’s face and his heart falls when he sees the shuttered, distant expression on Mycroft’s face.  
  
The contrast between this and Mycroft’s unguarded…(dare he call it happiness?) of before her arrival almost makes Greg want to cry.

 

Greg doesn’t move, he keeps his arm around Mycroft’s waist. Mycroft is staring into the distance, a tired, distraught expression on his face.   
  
Greg downs the rest of his champagne in one go, gritting his teeth at the bitter, stale taste.  
  
He places the empty glass on the tray of a waiter passing by.

“Myc?” He can hear the nervousness in his own voice, and he’s trying not to let the disappointment show on his face.  
  
Looking up at Mycroft and seeing the familiar iceman facade that had become so unfamiliar over the last few days is enough to break Greg’s heart. 

Mycroft glances at him, brows furrowed. He still doesn’t move away from Greg’s grip, as if that is some small mercy, Greg can’t decide. 

“Is everyone you work with like this?”   
  
“Like what?”  
  
Greg tries to keep the anger out of his voice, “So…cut throat? They have absolutely no right to talk to you like that, to make comments about your personal life.”  
  
Mycroft watches him carefully, the caged expression on his face makes Greg ache.  
  
“I’m not called the Ice Man for my winning personality.” Mycroft murmurs. “I don’t have friends, I haven’t been in a relationship. They’ve never seen me as human.” He shrugs, but Greg can tell from the sadness in his eyes, that Mycroft is bothered by it.

Greg leans into Mycroft’s space, “You have me, Mycroft. You’ve always had me.” Greg whispers, sincerity clear in his voice.   
  
He watches Mycroft’s expression soften slightly.   
  
“And you know what?” Greg continues, Mycroft silently shakes his head. “You always will.”  
  
Mycroft meets his gaze steadily and Greg hopes and prays that Mycroft knows that he means every single word of it.

“Plus, surely they know you could absolutely ruin them if you wanted?” Greg tries to inject some humour, he can feel himself shaking.   
  
Between anger at others, and the weight that’s been lifted from basically admitting he’s in love with the man in front of him. 

Mycroft’s soft laughter is delicate, some of the light has returned to the ocean that is his eyes. “You never fail to astound me, Gregory.” 

 

Mycroft and Greg migrate to a corner away from the majority of people.   
  
Mycroft stands closely beside Greg, the carefree Mycroft of earlier this evening still hasn’t quite returned, but he seems more at ease for which Greg is grateful.   
  
“Cheeky question maybe.” Greg murmurs, he notices Mycroft raise an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Greg grins at Mycroft mischievously. “Any chance of sneaking us into the exhibition? Get away from everyone here?”  
  
Mycroft seems surprised and pleased. “I never considered that.” A smile plays on his lips, “Then we shall escape?”  
  
Greg daringly reaches out to hold Mycroft’s hand, “Sounds wonderful. So, can you get us in?”  
  
Mycroft smirks, “I’ll see what I can do.” He squeezes Greg’s hand, “I’ll be right back.”  
  
Greg can’t help but grin as he watches Mycroft walk away.

There’s a spark of excitement in his chest that he can’t quite explain. 

It’s then that he notices a tall man watching him. 

Greg doesn’t recognise the man, but he feels a sense of unease as he stares back. 

The man is dressed solely in black, and he’s a worryingly pale.   
  
Greg watches the man make his way towards him, noticing that perhaps the only way he could describe the other man would be tall, threatening, and cheekbones to rival Sherlock’s. 

“Lestrade, isn’t it?” The man’s voice is deeper than Greg expected, and Greg feels as though he is being judged. 

“Depends on who’s asking.” He bites back, on the defensive. 

“Conversation is rife about Mycroft’s so-called partner.” 

Greg squares his shoulders, “Well maybe people should mind their own business.”

“Mortimer.” Mycroft appearing beside Greg brings him a sense of relief. Mycroft wrapping an arm around his waist is a surprise, and Greg glances at him confused.  
  
Mycroft is staring at the man he called Mortimer evenly. 

“Mycroft. What a surprise this all is, hm?” 

“Certainly.” Mycroft glances at Greg, sending him a reassuring smile. “Gregory, this is Mortimer.” 

Greg nods in acknowledgement, but stays silent. Still uneasy. 

 

“Darlin’!” Greg and Mycroft’s attention is drawn to a shorter man with ginger hair and a cream suit approaching them. 

He’s holding two flutes of champagne, and his eyes are set on Mortimer. Mortimer glances back at the other man, and his expression is less severe. 

When the man finally gets to Mortimer’s side, he leans in and kisses him, and if it surprises Greg, it surprises Mycroft too. 

“Found us some of the good bubbles!” He hands a glass to the taller man, and Greg notices that he’s actually in heels, and that he’d be even shorter without them. 

“Thank you, Amida.” Mortimer’s voice is softer now, kinder. His eyes don’t stray from the man’s face and it strikes Greg that the two of them are polar opposites, but it works. 

The shorter man turns his head towards Greg and Mycroft, his eyes travel their bodies, zone in on Mycroft’s hand around Greg’s waist, assesses their closeness. 

“You two are adorable!” He says eagerly, and Greg watches Mortimer watch Amida, his expression calm, the slightest smile on his face. 

“We were just-“ Mycroft begins, but the smaller man shakes his head. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, darlin’?”

Mortimer blushes, bringing some colour to his face. He clears his throat. “This is Mycroft Holmes, and his…partner?”

“My partner.” Mycroft interrupts, clarifying, leaving no room for doubt. “My partner, Gregory Lestrade.” 

Greg finds he can’t help the smile that blooms on his face, he directs it at Mycroft, whose grip only tightens on his waist. 

“You can call me Greg though, Amida was it?” Greg asks, holding out his free hand to the other man. 

“Sure is.” He shakes hands with Greg, still smiling at him and Mycroft in what looks like amusement. “Mortie has mentioned Mycroft before, I wasn’t aware that you had a partner.”  
  
Greg can feel Mycroft stiffen beside him, and his own anger from earlier, along with the hopeless feeling of ‘again, another one?’ builds up. 

The man seems to notice this straight away, smiling apologetically. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it, sorry. You two look wonderful together, it’s wonderful to see.”

“Thank you, if you don’t mind, we have somewhere to be.” Mycroft says evenly. 

“Of course!” He looks to Mortimer, who’s still focussed on the man, “We all should have dinner together at some point. Get to know each other.” 

Greg smiles politely, and they say their goodbyes. 

 

Anthea and Olivia are standing outside the closed doors of the exhibit, and Anthea smiles proudly when she sees them both together. 

“It’s all yours.” She greets them, standing aside. “We managed to get you both half an hour.”

Greg’s eyes widen in surprise. “Alone?” 

Greg catches the wink the Olivia throws him playfully. 

Anthea looks very much as though she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Of course. They’re not opening it to the others here for forty-five minutes. So enjoy.” 

“You truly are a miracle worker, thank you Anthea.” Mycroft murmurs, he glances at Olivia too. “Olivia.” He nods, “Have a wonderful night you two.”  
  
Anthea smirks, wrapping an arm around Olivia’s waist. “Oh we will. Now, shoo. Enjoy the exhibition.” 

Mycroft’s hand gently pressing against his lower back sends a shiver down Greg’s spine, and Greg’s pretty certain that Mycroft feels it, because he glances at Greg in amusement.  
  
“Shall we?” He guides Greg through the double doors and Greg is taken aback by the darkened room. 

 

“Fuck.” He can’t help but say out loud as he looks around. The lights are dimmed, but the main source of light comes from various projectors that project different Van Gogh’s onto the floor, bare walls, and ceiling.

Mycroft’s hand still rests on the base of his back, a warm and comforting pressure. 

“Indeed.” Mycroft murmurs, looking around them. 

Greg watches him carefully, his face lit by moving colours, an unfamiliar peaceful expression on his face. He’s never felt such an intense longing to kiss someone. 

He’s never seen Mycroft so at peace.  
“You’re gorgeous like this.” The words come out without really thinking about them. They sound loud in the silent room.

Mycroft’s head turns so fast it’s nearly comical. 

“I-“ Greg stutters, “I mean, you always are. Gorgeous, I mean.” His words come out awkwardly, almost sure that Mycroft will be able to see the blush burning on his cheeks in the shadows of the room. “Just-“ He continues despite himself, “You look at peace.” 

Mycroft is silent, surprise evident on his face. He searches Greg for any hint of a lie, but Greg stares back at him, eyes open and honest. 

“I am at peace. With you.” Mycroft’s words are quiet, “Thank you for everything you have done these last few days, and with finding Sherlock and putting a stop to his plans.” 

Greg shakes his head, reaching out for Mycroft’s hands, taking them both in his own.  
“I’d do anything for you, alright?” 

Mycroft stares down at their hands joined, then back at Greg and stands a little taller. 

“Would that include kissing me?” Mycroft’s voice shakes, betraying his anxiety. 

Greg can’t help but smile, it spreads across his face effortlessly, like sunshine on a rainy day. 

“The hell it does! Of course!” His blood sings when Mycroft laughs so freely at him, “God Myc, of course.” He lets go of Mycroft’s hands, gently stepping forward, caressing Mycroft’s face. 

Mycroft watches him, hope clear in his expression, perhaps even longing Greg thinks. 

Mycroft trails his hands up Greg’s forearms, he’s smiling and it’s like a beacon, a lighthouse guiding ships safely to shore. Greg even witnesses the illusive laughter lines around his eyes. 

Fuck, he’s _so_ in love with this man.

 

Greg leans in slowly, he hears Mycroft catch his breath. 

Greg’s thumbs stroke Mycroft’s warm skin, and Mycroft pulls Greg closer by the shoulders. 

They’re millimetres from each other’s lips and they still in the quiet, only the sound of their breaths. 

“Kiss me.” Mycroft breathes, and really, Greg needs no more encouragement. 

Greg closes the space between them and their lips meet. 

It’s heavenly and it gentle beyond belief.  
Mycroft’s lips are soft and he leans into Greg, they stay like that. 

It’s everything Greg has wished for, they’re both hesitant, he can feel Mycroft shaking in his arms. 

They separate just enough to look at each other. Mycroft’s eyes are shining and it makes Greg’s heart soar. 

“C’mere.” Greg mumbles, pulling Mycroft into another kiss, this one less gentle, more longing. 

All those years of longing coming to a head in the kiss. 

Mycroft’s hands slide into Greg’s hair and he daringly licks at Greg’s lips, who’s all too happy to get his first taste of Mycroft. 

Mycroft’s fingers tighten in Greg’s hair, and Greg can’t help the moan that escapes him. Mycroft makes a pleased noise and pulls again and Greg can feel Mycroft’s smile when he makes a small, surprised noise. 

Of course Mycroft would find out that Greg likes his hair being pulled straight away. _Of course._

Mycroft tastes a bit like that horrible champagne, with a hint of cigarettes.  
Greg’s heart falls a little at the realisation. They’d both been trying to give up, the stress of the last few days really have gotten to the other man, whose willpower is usually unbeatable. 

Mycroft’s laughter breaks them apart. He caresses Greg’s cheek, Greg watches in in a confused sort of amazement. 

“You know about the cigarettes.” Mycroft states, it seems as though he can’t stop smiling. 

Greg reaches in and presses a kiss to the tip of Mycroft’s nose, “That bastard really does have a lot to answer for, what has it been? Three months so far?” 

“Three months, thirteen days.” Mycroft states. 

Greg shakes his head, wanting to lean in for another kiss. 

 

The main door opens, and they both look towards it in surprise.  
“Fifteen minutes, boys!” Anthea’s voice carries before she shuts the door again seconds later. 

Mycroft and Greg catch each other’s eyes, and then they start laughing, the sound echoes around the large room. 

Greg finally catches his breath, and Mycroft’s staring at him with what he hopes is utter fondness. 

“Here we are, a room of priceless paintings and projectors, and all I want to do is kiss you.”

Mycroft’s responding smile is glorious, “And here I was convinced Van Gogh was a favourite of yours.” 

“He is. But I find I like you better.” Greg says softly, intertwining his fingers with Mycroft’s. 

“Come home with me, Gregory.” Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand, a hopeful look in his eyes. 

“I would love to.” 

Mycroft looks around them, content clear on his face. He doesn’t move. 

“Which one’s your favourite?” He asks quietly, glancing back at Greg in curiosity. “I noticed a postcard of _The Starry Night_ on your fridge, then there was a book of his art on your bookshelf.”

Greg can’t see the paintings around them clearly, they hide in the shadows of the moving colours of the projectors. 

_“Starry Night Over The Rhône.”_ Greg answers easily. He looks at Mycroft in disbelief, “Is that _here?”_ He asks in shock, although the satisfied smile on Mycroft’s face should be answer enough. 

“Oh my god, Mycroft, really?” 

“I believe so.” Mycroft reaches out for Greg’s hand, and leads him towards the back of the room. 

“The projectors were an amazing idea.” Greg murmurs as the blues of the almond blossoms wash over them both. 

“Mhm.” Mycroft smiles, “A far more scaled down version of an immersive digital exhibition that’s on in Paris at the moment, although they don’t have any of the physical paintings there.”

“Lucky us.” 

Mycroft brings them to a standstill, glancing at Greg with a shy smile that has Greg’s knees going weak. “We certainly are, Gregory.”

 

As they step closer to the back wall, the space around them lights up as though by sensor. 

Greg watches in amazement as the flowing lines of The Starry Night wash over the wall, before a whiter light reveals Starry Night Over The Rhone to them. 

Greg takes a step forward, examining the painting excitement. While he’s been lucky enough to see some Van Gogh’s in different galleries over the years, he’s never seen his favourite. Until now.

Even seeing the textures of the paint is nearly overwhelming. 

He glances back then, Mycroft’s a few steps behind him. 

Instead of looking at the painting, he’s watching Greg. 

Greg feels himself blush under Mycroft’s gaze. His heart speeds up tenfold. Mycroft’s staring at him like he’s the only person in the world. 

They’re in a room full of priceless paintings, and Mycroft is only aware of him. 

It strikes Greg that Mycroft looks so utterly _content._

Mycroft’s gaze is gentle, the faint laughter lines are pronounced, which makes Greg want to jump with joy. 

“God, Mycroft.” Greg whispers, “Take me home.” 

His voice, even though it’s only a whisper, sounds loud in the air between them. 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow in surprise, but he steps towards Greg, drawing him into a warm kiss, which promises much more to come. 

 

They leave the exhibition holding hands, and if Anthea is surprised to see them out before their time was up, she doesn’t seem it. 

“The car is waiting for you two outside.” She says smoothly, her eyes dancing with amusement. 

“Thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft nods, Greg notices him smile at Anthea and she only breaks out into a grin, something wordless has obviously passed between them. 

“Goodnight then.” She winks at Greg, who feels his cheeks heat up.  
  
“Time for us to dance away the night then, ‘Thea.” Olivia nods at them both before taking Anthea’s hand in hers and guiding her towards the reception.

Outside, the cool air that hits them is a relief. 

Mycroft’s hand is pressing against the small of Greg’s back again, and Greg can feel the threads of arousal run through him. 

Mycroft’s driver opens the door for them and nods in acknowledgement when Mycroft tells him that they will only be going to Mycroft’s house. 

 

Once again, Greg is in the familiar backseat of this car. The divider separates them both from the driver, and the atmosphere is distinctly different than usual. 

Usually, they sit on each respective side, all the unsaid between them. 

But now, Mycroft is watching him intently, there’s no awkwardness, there’s no tension of any form between them. 

It’s just pure _want._

“C’mere.” Greg murmurs, seeing Mycroft’s eyes darkening, a promising grin. 

Mycroft ends up in Greg’s lap, and Greg suddenly finds it very hard to construct any coherent thoughts. 

Greg presses his hands to Mycroft’s chest, slowly sliding them up to Mycroft’s shoulders, pushing off his jacket. Greg can feel Mycroft’s breath, hot and fast across his face and it makes him shiver. 

Greg raises his hands to caress Mycroft’s face, and he leans up, guiding him into a kiss. 

Mycroft trails his fingers through Greg’s hair, gentler than earlier. 

“D’you know-“ Greg asks, fingers stroking Mycroft’s warm skin, “How often I’ve sat back here with you,” He punctuates his words with a peck to the other man’s lips. “How often I’ve thought about this? About us like this?”

 

Mycroft’s small sigh of contentment makes Greg grin, nuzzling into Mycroft’s neck. 

“Perhaps as much as I have.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet, his breathing noticeably faster than before. 

Greg presses an open-mouthed kiss to the bare skin on Mycroft’s neck and feels a shudder go through Mycroft as a result. 

_Interesting_ , Greg thinks to himself, _I’ll need to explore that later_. 

“Just us two, back here.” Greg murmurs, “Taking each other apart.” 

One of Mycroft’s hands rests on his shoulder, the other ghosts against Greg’s chin, a silent command for Greg to raise his head. 

When he does, the look on Mycroft’s face takes his breath away. Mycroft’s pupils are blown wide, nearly taking over. Greg has never felt so desired _._

Mycroft closes the distance between them, his lips warm against his own. 

They kiss slowly, taking their time. 

There’s something achingly gentle about it, it’s just them two. 

 

They’re still kissing when the car comes to a stop. 

Mycroft rests his forehead against Greg’s when the driver announces that they’re at Mycroft’s home through the speaker. 

Greg starts laughing first, he just can’t help it. 

“Look at us.” He whispers, and then he hears Mycroft snort, he’s still holding onto Greg’s shoulders. 

“Perhaps we should…”

“Mhmm.” Greg murmurs, unable to help the smile on his face, “Think he’s leaving us alone.” 

The carefree laugh that Mycroft makes goes straight to Greg’s heart, leaving a warmth to spread through him. 

Mycroft somewhat reluctantly removes himself from Greg’s lap, He picks up his jacket and opens the door, Greg follows him, butterflies in his stomach. 

Mycroft walks by his side up the driveway. They’re so close that their hands regularly brush against each other, sending a shocks of electricity through Greg.

Greg’s been to Mycroft’s home only a few select times, but this feels different. This time, there are no emergencies, no Sherlock induced disasters, just the two of them. 

Mycroft leads Greg into the hallway, and Greg is surprised to see a reproduction of Van Gogh’s almond blossoms framed by the coat stand, a pop of colour against the white wall. 

Mycroft notices where Greg’s attention is and a gentle smile crosses his face. “A favourite of mine.” He murmurs, hanging up his jacket and moves to help Greg out of his. 

The slight pressure of Mycroft’s hands against his shoulders, trailing down his arms sends a shiver through his spine. 

Mycroft hums in appreciation, and Greg forgets how to breathe when he feels Mycroft’s lips warm against his neck. 

Greg reaches up to his shoulders, finding Mycroft’s hands, intertwining his fingers with the other man’s.   
  
“ _Finally._ ” Greg murmurs, he feels Mycroft step closer behind him, feels Mycroft’s front press against his body. He turns his head and Mycroft manages to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Indeed.” Mycroft’s breath is warm against his skin, Greg can only lean back further into the other man. There’s something so delicate about this, so trusting. 

 

Mycroft holds him like that for a blissfully long amount of time. Pressing soft open-mouthed kisses against his neck, Greg’s head resting back against Mycroft’s shoulder.   
  
His thumbs stroke the soft skin on the back of Mycroft’s hands, their fingers still intertwined. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft whispers, followed by a kiss to Greg’s cheek. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

“Myc.” Greg murmurs, reluctantly letting go of Mycroft to turn around and face the other man. 

Greg misses the warmth of Mycroft’s skin immediately and moves to caress his face, his fingers tracing everywhere.   
  
Under this new light, he can see the exhaustion in Mycroft’s eyes, the dark circles beneath them. He brushes back Mycroft’s hair with his fingers, and he can feel Mycroft relax. 

“Anything.” Greg leans in and kisses the other man gently, wrapping his arms around Mycroft. 

“Take me to bed.” Mycroft’s voice shakes when the kiss finishes, his pupils are wide in his eyes as he watches Greg with desire.   
  
Seeing it now, Greg realises that Mycroft has looked at him like this before, many times over the years, only when he was sure Greg couldn’t see him. 

“C’mon, love.” Greg joins hands with Mycroft, “Lead the way.” 

The shy smile he receives in response makes his heart soar. 

 

Mycroft leads him up the stairs, unfamiliar territory to Greg.

He’s guided into a large bedroom, all dark oaks and a bed that looked like luxury. 

Mycroft closes the door behind them, turning around to Greg he leans in, “That suit on you may very well be the death of me.” His voice is quiet, it’s as though he’s letting Greg in on a secret. 

“Well,” Greg murmurs, amusement on his face, “I’m just gonna have to take it off then, yeah?” 

Mycroft chuckles in response, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“Christ, you’re gorgeous, Myc.” Greg pulls him into another kiss, distinctly different to their last few, there’s more urgency now, like they were back in the car. 

Mycroft makes a small whimper in appreciation. His hands trail down Greg’s back, pulling him closer. Greg can only close his eyes, his hands at the base of Mycroft’s back, he lets Mycroft take what he needs. 

Mycroft’s hands wander further down, and Greg lets out a surprised moan when Mycroft cups his arse, closing any distance left between them; he can feel the unmistakable hardness of Mycroft against him.   
  
He moves against Mycroft, needy and he doesn’t care that it’s getting harder to breathe, he never wants to stop kissing the other man. 

Greg lets out a frankly embarrassing whimper when Mycroft ends their kiss. 

“May I undress you, Gregory?” 

“‘Course.” Greg breathes. 

Greg can’t remember the last time someone else undressed him, he doesn’t want to. Mycroft’s long fingers are elegant, admirable. His touches are light, barely there. 

Before he begins to unbutton Greg’s shirt, he stands back to admire him, and Greg can feel himself blush, suddenly self-conscious. 

“You truly are a work of art, Gregory.” 

 

Despite everything, Greg’s clothes end up in a pile on the floor. With each button slowly slipped open, Mycroft trails kisses down Greg’s uncovered skin. 

When Mycroft gets as far as Greg’s belt, letting the shirt fall to the ground carelessly, he kneels on the floor and the sight makes Greg’s cock throb in his trousers. 

Of course he’s thought about this scenario, but only ever in his wildest dreams did he ever think that this would actually happen.   
  
He takes a sharp inhale of breath when Mycroft’s hand presses against his erection, and Mycroft looks up at him under this eyelashes, 

“May I?” 

Greg lets out a strangled laugh, “Please.” 

Mycroft acts immediately, and soon Greg’s trousers and boxers are bundled around his ankles. 

Mycroft makes a sound of what Greg can only describe as admiration and he can’t help but feel a little proud. 

Mycroft leans in, his breath warm against Greg’s skin, Greg shivers and Mycroft presses the ghost of a kiss to Greg’s hipbone. 

Somewhat unexpectedly, Mycroft takes Greg into his mouth and Greg can’t help his cry of surprise, his hands rest on Mycroft’s head, fingers in his hair, but he’s careful not to pull or grab. 

He looks down at the sight in front of him, a still suited Mycroft on his knees, Greg’s cock in his mouth.  
  
Greg gently runs his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, the other man hums around his cock and the sensation results in another moan from himself. 

With one hand on Greg’s hip and the other wrapped at the base of Greg’s cock, Mycroft trails his tongue up the underside of his cock, pulling back slightly, paying particular attention to the head. 

“Fuck.” Greg manages to say between gritted teeth. 

Greg throws his head back as Mycroft starts to experiment, slowly bobbing his head, exploring with his tongue. He wishes he had the door or the wall, something to lean back against. 

He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the ache in his thighs, the fact that his knees are more than a little wobbly. 

Mycroft would be totally capable of just taking Greg apart right here, and Greg would let him, and it’s a surprise to lose the heat of Mycroft’s mouth, to feel the cold air in the room against his skin. 

 

Greg opens his eyes, confused, a little concerned. 

Mycroft is at eye level, lips swollen slightly. His hair is dishevelled thanks to Greg’s fingers, but there is unconcealed desire written across his face. 

Christ, if Greg wasn’t already in love with the man, he would be falling at this moment. 

“Bed.” Mycroft’s voice is hoarse, but he’s smiling. 

Greg pulls him into his arms, kissing him, tasting himself on Mycroft. “Not until I get you out of those clothes.” 

Greg carefully undresses Mycroft, trailing his hands along pale skin, pressing his lips against different constellations of freckles that decorate Mycroft’s skin. 

“Beautiful, Myc.” Greg whispers against his skin, “Absolutely gorgeous.”

As Greg works his way down Mycroft’s body, Mycroft’s hands caress his back, running slowly over the knots in his shoulders, fingers slow, pressing, and exploratory. 

God, Greg thinks, what it would be like to have those elegant fingers inside him. 

He doesn’t realise that the frankly desperate moan that fills the room has come from himself. 

When Mycroft is naked, he guides Greg to the bed. 

“Myc.” Greg whispers, as he sinks into the duvet. 

“Here.” Mycroft gently runs his fingers through Greg’s hair, a playful smirk on his lips, his eyes dance when he manages to pull a moan from Greg just from tugging at his hair. 

Greg easily manoeuvres them both, so that he’s on top of Mycroft. 

It’s so easy to get lost in the other man’s eyes. There’s nothing else in the world like it. 

 

Leaning in to kiss Mycroft again, Mycroft trails his fingers down the notches of Greg’s spine, moving down to his arse, squeezing slightly. 

Greg smiles against Mycroft’s lips, moving his hips, pressing against Mycroft. Their cocks brush against each other, the friction makes them both moan.   
  
Mycroft’s grip tightens on his arse and Greg takes that as a command to grind against Mycroft again, even now they’re able to communicate without talking, without breaking the kiss. 

Greg slips his hand in between them, taking them both in hand and Mycroft cries out, the sound goes straight to Greg’s cock, and it throbs alongside Mycroft’s.

“Got any lube, love?” Greg asks, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder. 

Mycroft nods, “Bedside table, to your right.” His voice shaking. 

Greg kisses him, before moving. He finds the bottle easily, bringing it back to Mycroft. 

“What do you want?” Greg whispers, kissing Mycroft’s forehead. 

“You.” comes the breathless response, as Greg moves back to where he was.

Mycroft grabs a hold of Greg’s hand, leading them both in-between their bodies. “Like this.” He whispers, He stokes them both like Greg had done, “Together.” 

Greg can’t help the surge of adoration that flows through him. He leans down and kisses Mycroft steadily, part of him afraid that he’ll say too much too soon. 

 

Coating both their cocks in lube, Greg feels Mycroft shiver beneath him. 

“So long.” Greg murmurs, “Can’t believe I have you now.” 

Mycroft reaches up to touch Greg’s face, his eyes finding Greg’s. “Gregory.” 

He pulls Greg down for a kiss, his hips moving against Greg’s when Greg takes them both in hand, their cocks easily moving against each other. 

It’s heavenly, Greg nearly blacks out just from how perfect it feels. 

One of Mycroft’s hands rests on the base of Greg’s back, blunt nails against skin. 

Mycroft’s other hand finds Gregs, wraps around them both, following Greg’s movements. 

Greg can feel a fire glow in the bottom of his stomach, each stroke brings him closer to the edge. 

“Kiss me.” Mycroft’s voice, low and shaking sends a spark through Greg. 

“Never want to stop.” Greg murmurs, meeting Mycroft’s lips. 

They moan as they move together, breathless and aching. 

“I’m close, love.” Greg barely manages the words. 

Mycroft hums in what could be acknowledgment or agreement, perhaps both. 

Their joint movements are taking on an edge, they grind together desperately, their hands aren’t following a steady rhythm of strokes anymore, everything is urgent.

Mycroft’s nails dig into Greg’s back, and Greg knows he’s at the very edge, their kisses now are messy, but still tinged with a sense of gentleness. 

Mycroft crying out Greg’s name as he comes between them sets Greg off too, and he can see stars. 

It’s never felt quite like this before, and that knowledge hits Greg square in the chest. 

He holds Mycroft close, as their breathing slows. 

Mycroft placing a gentle kiss to Greg’s cheek brings him back to the room. 

“I’ll get something to clean us up, yeah?” 

Mycroft’s answering smile is enough to break a million hearts. “You wonderful man.” 

 

Sliding under the duvet with Mycroft is glorious, even more so when Mycroft curls up around him, tangling their legs, resting his head on Greg’s chest. 

Greg sighs happily, wrapping his arm around Mycroft. “Nothing to worry about tonight.” He whispers. 

Mycroft’s answer is to merely kiss Greg’s chest. 

“Sleep well, love.” Greg murmurs. 

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice is hesitant and Greg suddenly feels anxious. 

“Hm?” 

“I believe I will sleep better tonight than I have for many years.” 

Greg can’t help but smile, he presses a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head. “About time.” 

Mycroft hums in amusement, “You’re truly the most wonderful person in my life, Gregory.”

Greg can hear the drowsiness in Mycroft’s voice, his words slightly slurred, but Greg also hears the words beneath Mycroft’s. 

He can feel his heart take off in his chest, is it too soon to say the words?  
  
Mycroft yawns, and Greg runs a hand down his spine, adoring the domesticity of it all. “I love you too, Myc.” 

Greg can feel Mycroft relax more against him, and he knows Mycroft can hear his heart race. 

“Goodnight, Gregory.” 

Greg lies still, listening as Mycroft’s breathing evens out. He can’t seem to get the smile off his face. 

Years have led to this moment, and finally, finally he has Mycroft in his arms, safe and sleeping. 

He sends a silent promise to the sleeping Mycroft that he’ll always be here. 

And he will be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @lostallsenseofcontrol & twitter @lostallsenseof1


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